


Freely Given

by dr_girlfriend



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Explicit Consent, M/M, Supernatural Elements, alternative universe, dating apps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22724905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/pseuds/dr_girlfriend
Summary: Bucky stands at the hotel bar.  There’s an empty stool right next to him but he’s too jumpy to sit, skin buzzing with a mix of anxiety and anticipation.He doesn’t do this often.  It’s a risk, every time. Even with his hair pulled back into a loose bun and a glove covering his metal hand, there’s always the chance that something might give him away.But the truth is he’s lonely and he’s touch-starved, and even though half the time he tells himself that he’s cruising through the app ironically to laugh at the profiles, he can’t deny that his mouth started to water the second he saw Hawkeye616’s profile pic.Shoulders.  Biceps. Did he mentionshoulders?The profile pic was angled to show just a slice of his face — a strong but scruffy jaw, lips slanted in a smirk, a flash of blue eye.  Just enough so that Bucky would know him if he saw him, but “Hawkeye616” would have to approach first.“James?”Bucky looks up from his whiskey glass, and —oh.It’s definitely worth the risk.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 102
Kudos: 641
Collections: Winterhawk Valentine's Day 2020 Blind Date Exchange





	Freely Given

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OriginalCeenote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/gifts).



> I don't think this warrants any warnings, but feel free to contact me on Tumblr if you disagree. Bucky wonders briefly if there was some kind of dub-con situation but there isn't and all the consent is very explicit.

* * *

Bucky stands at the hotel bar. There’s an empty stool right next to him but he’s too jumpy to sit, skin buzzing with a mix of anxiety and anticipation.

He doesn’t do this often. It’s a risk, every time. Even with his hair pulled back into a loose bun and a glove covering his metal hand, there’s always the chance that something might give him away.

But the truth is he’s lonely and he’s touch-starved, and even though half the time he tells himself that he’s cruising through the app ironically to laugh at the profiles, he can’t deny that his mouth started to water the second he saw Hawkeye616’s profile pic.

Shoulders. Biceps. Did he mention _shoulders?_

The profile pic was angled to show just a slice of his face — a strong but scruffy jaw, lips slanted in a smirk, a flash of blue eye. Just enough so that Bucky would know him if he saw him, but “Hawkeye616” would have to approach first. 

It’s a trick Bucky recognizes. He’d done the same with his own profile pic, using a snapshot Steve had taken of him when he wasn’t looking, his face half turned away and his hair the most recognizable thing about him. Hopefully no one is going to I.D. him as the Winter Soldier by his hair. 

“James?”

Bucky looks up from his whiskey glass, and — _oh._

It’s _definitely_ worth the risk.

The guy is a little younger than he expected — in his 20’s, maybe — but not _too_ green. Not with the way those bright blue eyes rake slowly up and down Bucky’s body, not even trying to hide his attraction. 

Most men pad their height a little in their profiles, but this guy has gotta be every inch of the 6’4” he had listed. And the profile pic was definitely him too — even under the slightly-rumpled dress shirt he’s wearing Bucky can tell his arms are fantastic. He’s got wide shoulders tapering to a lean waist and endless legs, and Bucky already wants him so bad he can hardly see straight.

Bucky knows he can be intimidating, with his resting murder face and the bulk of his torso evident even under layers of clothing. It’s why he always lets anyone he matches with approach him first, and he doesn’t make a big deal out of it if they decide otherwise once they see him in person. This guy doesn’t seem put off at all, though, his body language relaxed and welcoming.

Bucky takes care to drop his shoulders nonetheless, moving slow as he holds a hand out to shake. “Hawkeye616?”

The guy snorts. “Clint.”

“James,” Bucky says. Shit, Clint knew that already. This guy’s so pretty he’s turning Bucky into a dumbass.

Clint’s lips quirk but he lets it slide. He gestures to the bartender, pointing at Bucky’s near-empty glass and holding up two fingers.

The drinks show up almost instantly, and Bucky finds himself taking a too-large gulp to ease some of the dryness in his throat. It burns a little going down, and Bucky has to smother a cough.

This is always the hardest part. Once the action starts Bucky is fine, but this part — the thinly-veiled negotiation disguised as casual conversation, the awkwardness it takes to get from here to the bed (or more often the alley or even the bathroom, because Bucky sure as hell can’t take anyone back to _his_ place) — is not Bucky’s forte. Not anymore. 

He raises the glass to his lips again, but Clint’s hand is there, gentle on his wrist.

“Slow down,” Clint says, low and amused. “There’s no rush.” He’s got the real hand, and his thumb unerringly slips under the edge of Bucky’s cuff to find the bare skin of his wrist, tracing a slow circle over Bucky’s thrumming pulse. Just that is enough to make Bucky’s knees feel a little weak.

“No?” Bucky says, a bit of challenge in his tone. They haven’t even discussed what they are going to do or where, but he knows how these things usually go — fast and frantic. 

“Not at all.” Clint’s voice is low with just a little rasp to it, and Bucky feels it like a callused hand stroking over his skin, setting his nerves alight. “I’ve got a room upstairs.”

He releases Bucky’s wrist and ducks his head then. “That is, if you still want to do this,” he says, slanting a glance up from below golden lashes

Maybe it’s practiced, Bucky doesn’t know. It still takes his breath away. It makes him want to devour Clint whole, and he swallows thickly against the sudden craving.

Clint reaches past Bucky to close long, dextrous fingers around his own glass. He raises it to his lips, taking a slow draught. Bucky watches his throat work, a tanned and freckled stretch of skin that Bucky can’t wait to get his mouth on.

He blinks firmly, forcing his brain back to rationality. Jesus christ, the haze of lust settling over him has short-circuited his common sense. 

“The glove stays on,” he blurts out, holding up his left hand. “And the shirt. If — if that’s a dealbreaker I’ll pay for your drink and be on my way, no harm no foul.” He’s usually more artful about it, but something about Clint has him off-kilter.

Clint smiles, slow and soft. He steps closer, thigh sliding between Bucky’s legs. Not enough to provide any pressure, just the whisper-soft suggestion of heat and sensation where Bucky’s cock is already thickening in his trousers.

Bucky makes a noise, a sharp inhale that ends on a shuddering exhale, as Clint leans in, his lips just ghosting over Bucky’s earlobe before he rasps into his ear.

“Now why would that be a problem, sweetheart?”

* * *

Clint and Bucky lean carefully against opposite walls of the elevator, but the air between them feels heavy and electric.

Bucky can’t keep his eyes off of Clint — his sky-bright eyes, the sharp edge of his jaw, the ropey tendons in his forearms where the sleeves of the dress shirt are rolled up halfway.

Clint seems equally appreciative, his eyes heated as they drift over Bucky’s face, and down the line of his body.

The ding of the elevator seems to startle them both.

* * *

The door to the hotel room barely has a chance to click shut before Clint is pressing Bucky up against it. 

Bucky pushes forward, impatient and hungry. His hands are already at Clint’s belt, pulling it free.

“Shhhh…slow down,” Clint says again, hands coming down to cover Bucky’s. He’s smiling, though, eyes bright before he ducks down to nip at the curve of Bucky’s throat. “We’ve got all night.”

And...damn. The very idea of it sends a shiver down Bucky’s spine. He’s so used to these encounters being rushed, furtive. The idea of taking his time, drawing this out, seems...indulgent. _Decadent_.

He lets his hands fall from Clint’s belt, forces himself to relax back against the door.

“Okay,” he says. “What do you want, then?”

Clint scrapes his teeth over the sharp edge of Bucky’s jaw and then lifts his head. There’s a hectic flush to his cheeks. “I want to take my time with you,” he says. “I want to make you feel good. I want to drive you _crazy_.” 

His voice is a low growl now, making heat gather low in Bucky’s belly. He doesn’t look away for a moment as he rubs his thumb up Bucky’s cheekbone. “I want to make you come harder than you’ve ever come before. And then I want to do it all over again.” 

He leans forward, but stops a fraction of an inch away, breath warm against the corner of Bucky’s mouth. After a long, suspenseful moment Bucky realizes that he’s waiting for an answer.

“Fuck, yes,” he manages and then Clint is kissing him, softer and slower than Bucky ever remembers being kissed. Clint’s big hand is framing Bucky’s cheek and his mouth is warm and insistent, but the kiss is still leisurely. Clint kisses like he’s tasting Bucky, like he’s learning him, _cherishing_ him, and Bucky finds himself melting into it.

Clint’s tongue is whiskey-sweet and his kiss makes Bucky feel drunk, languorous. He lets his spine relax back against the door, lets his body go loose and pliable. Clint’s other hand rubs down his side, ending to curl around the small of his back, tilting his hips up.

And _fuck_ that’s good, Clint pressing forward so that Bucky is riding his thick thigh, the friction both easing the ache in his cock and stoking it at the same time. Clint is kissing down Bucky’s neck again, raspy stubble and warm lips and just barest hint of teeth, and it’s so good that Bucky barely tenses as Clint’s lips find his way to Bucky’s collarbone right at the edge of the open placket of his henley, perilously close to the junction of skin and metal.

“Shirt stays on,” Bucky manages to remind him, his voice sounding hoarse already. The Wakandan arm feels more realistic through the barrier of fabric, but it still looks like no other prosthetic on Earth.

“I won’t forget,” Clint says, his teeth immediately scraping in the other direction. His other hand winds into Bucky’s hair, a gentle tug of reassurance before he raises his head. 

His pupils are blown wide, dark in his light eyes and they feel magnetic — like Bucky couldn’t look away if he tried.

“I only take what’s freely given,” Clint says, hushed and sincere. 

There’s something odd about the words — the formality of them, the way Clint says them, as if the phrase is well-worn and familiar to him. It pings a little note of caution in the back of Bucky’s head, but then Clint is kissing him again, deep and thorough, and Bucky can’t focus on anything else. It’s probably some line from a movie or something; there’s still a host of cultural references Bucky is missing.

He’s breathless by the time Clint draws away with a final little nip at Bucky’s bottom lip.

“Come to bed,” Clint says, smiling lazily as he backs away, gently tugging Bucky with him by the front of his belt.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes. And, Jesus, he’s never this passive, this _overwhelmed_ in these kinds of encounters. Usually he’s the one taking the lead, never letting his guard down. But Clint is so confident, so intent on pleasing Bucky, that Bucky instinctively knows that Clint is not going to cross any lines. He feels like he can just relax into it for once, letting Clint take the lead, and Bucky is surprised to find that he likes that idea. He likes it a _lot_.

But it’s not in Bucky to be entirely passive, and so as Clint works his belt open Bucky’s hands start unbuttoning Clint’s shirt. His gloved fingers fumble on the small buttons, though, and he’s too impatient — when it’s unbuttoned enough he just grasps the bottom and pulls, anxious to see the shoulders and arms he’s been drooling over on the app finally bared to his gaze.

Clint raises his arms agreeably, letting Bucky pull the shirt up over an amazing set of abs, up to his chest. Clint pulls it off the rest of the way when Bucky finds, to his chagrin, that he’s not quite tall enough to reach.

And then Bucky freezes, pulls back, because Clint’s torso is _littered_ with injuries — fresh bruises and scrapes and what looks like a puncture wound, the starburst red and livid on his shoulder.

Clint is leaning down to kiss him again and Bucky ducks away, backing up another step.

“What’s wrong?” Clint says, confusion clear on his face, and — what? No one is _that_ oblivious.

“Is someone hurting you?” Bucky asks bluntly, surprised at the fury that spikes through him at the thought of it. He doesn’t know Clint, not really — doesn’t even know if that’s his real name — but everything he’s seen so far has told him that Clint is kind and gentle, and the idea of someone deliberately harming him is making Bucky _furious_.

“Oh.” Clint looks down at his own torso as if surprised to find the injuries there. “Don’t worry about that. They’re from a long time ago. They’ll be gone soon enough.”

And not only is that completely contradictory but it’s _bullshit_ , Bucky knows it is. Thanks to the serum Bucky heals faster than the average human but he still knows what bruises look like when they are fresh, red-purple with not even a hint of yellow or green.

Clint seems to have shrugged it off though, pressing forward again. As if sensing Bucky’s hesitation he just presses small little kisses — to Bucky’s cheek, his temple, the corner of his mouth until Bucky can’t help but smile.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Clint says in a deep rumble. “I don’t like to see you sad.”

Some of the tension in Bucky eases. He pushes his doubts aside — It’s not like Bucky’s been an open book, and it would be pretty hypocritical of him to think that he’s entitled to Clint’s secrets. 

Maybe Clint has a physical job or maybe someone really did hurt him — hell, maybe he _likes_ to be hurt. Whatever the reason, it seems to be bothering Bucky a hell of a lot more than it’s bothering Clint.

Still, inflicting pain in this setting is not something Bucky’s interested in, and so he’s careful where he places his hands, especially the gloved metal one, as he runs his palms up Clint’s torso. “Just tell me if I hurt you,” he concedes, and Clint’s relieved smile is like sunshine.

“Will do,” he says easily, and then neither of them are holding back any longer, kissing hard and desperate as they shove each other’s pants off and boxers off, stumbling back toward the bed away from the careless tangle of clothing.

Clint lands on top but Bucky rolls them, using the moment of distraction to pull the sheathed throwing knife from his left forearm and drop it over his side of the bed. Then he straddles Clint’s thighs and takes a moment just to look.

Clint is fucking beautiful, his body lean and powerful, the bruises only accentuating the beauty of his tanned skin and muscled torso. His cock is pretty too, thick and curved just right. Bucky gives it a welcoming stroke and can’t stop himself from wondering, just for a moment —

“What do you want, sweetheart?” Clint says, as if reading Bucky’s mind. His big hands are warm at Bucky’s hips, patient, thumbs brushing little circles against the thin skin of Bucky’s hip bones.

The endearment should bother Bucky, he feels like it should, and yet it’s something about the sincerity in Clint’s voice — it just makes him shiver.

“I want to fuck you,” Bucky says automatically, distracted by the way the fine hair on Clint’s body seems to glow gold in the lamplight.

“Sure,” Clint says easily. “I’d like that. But is that _really_ what you want?”

His big, warm palms slide back, cupping Bucky’s ass, giving it a knowing squeeze. 

Bucky meets those sky-blue eyes, startled. There’s nothing there but quiet acceptance, none of the judgment Bucky had always imagined when he thought about what it would be like to ask for this.

It emboldens Bucky, the last of his reservations falling away. 

“I want you to fuck _me_ ,” he admits, and the warmth of Clint’s answering smile makes the heat in his belly flare ever-higher.

“There you go,” Clint says, gentle praise that Bucky can’t help but bask in. “There’s nothing I’d like more than to give you exactly what you want.”

It sounds like a line — it _should_ be a line. No one night stand found on a hookup app is ever so unselfish, and yet Clint goes on to _prove_ it. He uses his warm mouth and his long callused fingers and every inch of his gorgeous body to drive Bucky to the edge of madness. He doesn’t seem to care about anything else but coaxing every shudder of sensation, every hitched breath and hoarse moan from Bucky’s body.

Bucky arches up into it, clenches down against where Clint’s clever fingers are curling and stroking inside his body, everything he can think of to rush Clint along, and yet Clint is deliberate and unhurried.

They are both sheened with sweat by the time Clint finally pulls three fingers free, gently kissing Bucky’s disappointed whine from his lips.

Then Clint is rolling on the condom and slicking up that beautiful cock of his, leaning back over Bucky.

Bucky grasps at Clint’s shoulders, waiting. He’s never done this before that he can remember, but in this moment he wants it — _needs_ it — more than anything.

And yet still Clint is not moving forward, just rubbing the head of his thick cock right where he’s worked Bucky soft and open.

Bucky tries to pull but Clint’s impressive arms flex, holding him in place. 

_“Tell me,”_ Clint says, a thread of urgency in his voice.

From anyone else it would seem like a tease, but something in Bucky knows exactly what Clint is waiting for.

“Do it,” he says, his own voice sounding as wrecked as he feels. “I — I want it.”

The words send a full-body shudder through Clint and then he’s pushing forward, gentle but relentless, working his thick cock into the space he’s made just for it.

It’s just as intimate as Bucky had expected it to be but it’s good, it’s _so_ good, friction and fullness that makes Bucky’s toes curl, sending little jolts of pleasure up his spine as Clint pushes deeper and deeper.

 _“James,”_ Clint breathes, when he’s finally there. He drops his head to Bucky’s shoulder, breath gusting hot and rough against the skin of his neck. Bucky can feel restraint in every tense line of Clint’s body, and he realizes that he can’t imagine having done this with anyone else.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes, moving his hips just a little, testing out the unfamiliar sensation.

“Shhh…,” Clint rasps. “Just breathe for a minute, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

But now that Bucky’s felt it he’s impatient, greedy. He stirs his hips again, and — oh — that’s amazing, right there. “That’s...that’s... _fuck_ ,” he says again.

Clint laughs against Bucky’s skin. It makes his cock jump inside Bucky and they both gasp. Then Clint nips sharply at Bucky’s throat, braces his arms, and starts to roll his hips.

Bucky’s gotten good at managing his hyped-up senses — he’s had decades of practice, after all, even if he can’t remember most of it. But now, trembling here on the very edge of overstimulation, Clint moving strong and deep inside him, his safeguards seem to crumble.

He can hear the beating of Clint’s heart, the rasp of his chest hair against Bucky’s as he surges forward. Clint hits a spot that makes Bucky inhale sharply through his nose, and his head fills with the scent of sex and the tang of sweat, the warm soft scent of Clint’s cologne radiating off his heated skin. 

And he feels — he feels _everything_ , the scratch of Clint’s stubble against his neck, the thick drag of Clint’s cock inside him, the rough palm of Clint’s hand on his hip, tilting him so that Clint hits that same spot with precision over and over, sending sparks up Bucky’s spine.

Clint is forcing noises out of Bucky’s throat with every thrust and Bucky bites down on Clint’s collarbone, sucking hard to muffle himself. When he finally pulls away with a gasp he’s left a mark, red and wet against Clint’s golden skin.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Clint breathes. He’s been pretty quiet, but now it’s like something’s been unlocked, and the words come in a heated rush. “Look at you, so fuckin’ beautiful, you’re perfect, I’m gonna make you feel so good —”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something, anything, but all he manages is a punched-out moan as Clint wraps one arm underneath Bucky’s back, reaching up to wind his fingers in Bucky’s hair. Clint balances on that arm as his other hand wraps warm and slick around Bucky’s cock.

Clint hasn’t missed a beat, still fucking into Bucky deep and steady, his hips now driving Bucky’s cock through the warm tunnel of his fist. It’s almost _too_ good, pleasure building higher than Bucky’s ever felt before, gathering and gathering but somehow still not cresting. Clint is rubbing Bucky just right, inside and out, and Bucky can feel the pleasure winding tighter, sharper, and yet he’s not there, he’s still not _there_.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Clint rumbles, biting at the shell of Bucky’s ear at the same time as he rubs the pad of his broad thumb right underneath the head of Bucky’s cock. “I got you, it’s gonna feel so good.”

Bucky can barely hear him over the obscene slap of skin on skin, the blood pounding in his head. He feels hot all over, can hear himself whining high and frantic. He’s pinned in Clint’s grasp, stretched taut between the fingers tugging his hair and the ones working his cock. He spreads his legs wider, shameless, trying to get more of Clint — deeper, harder. He can feel tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. 

“Clint,” he manages. It’s starting to feel too intense, _too_ good, his body tensing up against the enormity of it. “What —?”

“It’s okay. Let me give this to you,” Clint is muttering. “C’mon, sweetheart, you can do it.” He fucks into Bucky that extra bit deeper, squeezes his cock just that extra bit tighter. “Come for me.”

It hits Bucky like a rolling wave, threatening to pull him under. A slow-motion explosion that starts at the base of his spine and spreads outwards, muscles clenching helplessly around where Clint is still moving strong and deep inside him. His cock jumps in the velvety-warm grasp of Clint’s fingers, spilling over his own chest and shirt. Clint is relentless, fucking him through it, attenuating the pleasure until Bucky is limp and shivering with it.

“Beautiful,” Clint murmurs hoarsely. “Fuck, I knew you’d be amazing.” He drops his head, mouthing wetly at Bucky’s neck, and then Bucky feels him shudder through his own release, his weight sagging against Bucky for a long moment before he seems to recover and roll them both to their sides.

Bucky feels wrung-out, languid, every muscle in his body liquid with warmth. This is normally when he would be taking his leave but he can’t even imagine moving now, can’t even muster up the strength to open his eyes. Clint is still inside him and Bucky loops a leg over Clint’s hip to hold him there, content to just breathe in the warm musk of Clint’s skin, the scent of sex all around them.

Clint laughs but allows it, his arms drawing Bucky closer, his palm running up and down Bucky’s back over his shirt. It’s...sweet. Almost _tender_ , which is something Bucky can’t ever recall experiencing. They stay like that for long moments and then Clint makes a noise of regret and pulls gently free.

Bucky flops onto his back. His head feels fuzzy, staticky. Clint’s a stranger, he should at least be tracking him around the room, but he can’t bring himself to care.

The bed sags and Clint is pressing himself up against Bucky’s side, sliding his arm until Bucky’s head is propped up on his shoulder. Clint lifts Bucky’s ungloved hand and presses something into it, the shock of cold rousing Bucky from his daze just a little. 

He squints open his eyes and sees a glass of water. He suddenly realizes his throat is dry — probably from all the noise he had been making — and he can feel his cheeks warm. He drains the glass gratefully, the water cool and soothing, and he presses the empty glass against his hot forehead for a moment before setting it aside.

Clint has a warm, wet washcloth, and he starts to clean them both up as best as he can, although Bucky’s shirt is probably a lost cause. Still, Bucky appreciates the gesture, and appreciates even more the view of Clint as he rubs the cloth over his own amazing abs and chest. His injuries don’t look nearly as bad as Bucky remembered, and he wonders why he had been so bothered by them earlier — Christ, he almost missed having this, and that would have been a goddamn _tragedy_.

He feels like he should say something — do something — but then Clint is throwing the cloth carelessly aside and sliding even closer. He pulls Bucky fully into his arms and — fuck, it’s so good, just to be quiet like this, just to be tangled up in someone with no expectations.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” Clint murmurs. His fingers trace through Bucky’s hair and Bucky’s eyelids sag. It’s an effortless slide toward sleep and Bucky doesn’t even try to resist it.

* * *

Bucky wakes slowly, his limbs pleasantly heavy, his whole body warm and relaxed. 

He hears movement and squints his eyes open. The curtains are still open, limning the room in moonlight.

Clint is standing at the foot of the bed, pulling his pants on.

“Y’re leavin’?” Bucky rasps.

He means to be inviting, to lure Clint back to bed, but Clint’s reaction is nothing like what he expected.

Clint startles and then freezes in place, his eyes wide, his lush mouth hanging open.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky sits up, fingers tightening in the sheets as his head spins with the sudden movement.

Before he even realizes it he has his knife in his hand, pointed at Clint.

“What the fuck?” he growls. “Did you drug me or somethin’?”

“No!” Clint is still frozen in place, watching Bucky like a rabbit watches a swooping hawk as Bucky uses his other hand to flick the bedside light on.

“What is this?” Bucky feels anger start to coalesce in his chest, sharp and icy. “What’re you, after my wallet or something?”

“No!” Clint protests again. “I don’t — I don’t do that!” 

Bucky just watches him, hiding his confusion behind stony silence. 

“Anymore,” Clint eventually acknowledges, an embarrassed flush coloring his cheeks. He looks so much younger now that all his easy confidence is gone.

Maybe it’s that — honesty to a fault, that convinces Bucky that there’s no real danger here. He takes a deep breath, tamping down on the anger, trying to think this through. He puts the knife on the bed but keeps his fingers on the hilt, gesturing Clint to sit down.

Clint goes, sitting on the corner of the bed with his hands in his lap like a puppet whose strings have been cut. 

“What then?”

 _“I only take what’s freely given,”_ Clint says, his voice low and urgent.

It echoes in Bucky’s head — the memory of Clint saying those words last night, the odd chord they had struck before Clint kissed him and drove thoughts of anything else from his head.

Bucky’s train of thought is derailed, though, because he notices something that should have struck him immediately. The skin of Clint’s chest and back is golden and even, speckled only with freckles and the faint criss-cross of whitened scars. No bruising, no lacerations — even the love bites Bucky had marked into his skin last night have gone.

Bucky leans forward. He trails a gloved finger where he knows he left a mark on the crest of Clint’s collarbone. Only the puncture wound is still there, the starburst on Clint’s left shoulder long-healed and silvery, and Clint inhales sharply when Bucky’s finger circles it.

“You got the serum too?” Bucky says, but the blank look on Clint’s face is answer enough.

“What then?” Bucky asks. “C’mon, kid, nothing’s gonna surprise me at this point. Vampire, werewolf? What’s the deal?”

Clint just stares down at his hands, and Bucky sits up further, intrigued.

“You only take what’s freely given,” he repeats, and Clint’s eyes shoot up to his at the words.

Clint hesitates, and then nods.

“So...what did you take?”

“Not money,” Clint mumbles. “I can pay my own way. Just...just this.”

He gestures, an all-encompassing motion that includes Bucky, the bed, the rumpled sheets, as if that explains anything.

“Sex?” Bucky hazards. He immediately feels foolish, but Clint nods in agreement.

“Sexual energy,” he clarifies.

“Like, like a —” There’s a word that Bucky can’t quite grab ahold of, something out of fairy tales.

Clint stares down at his hands again. “Incubus,” he whispers, his voice thick with misery.

They are silent for a moment, Bucky taking in the information, giving himself time to stretch his worldview that little bit wider.

“I told you the bruises were from a long time ago,” Clint finally says. “Some of them are from when I was a kid. They come back when … when I haven’t taken anything for awhile.”

 _Taken_. 

That word sends a shiver of alarm up Bucky’s spine. “The way I felt — the things I wanted — did you — did you _influence_ —” His stomach turns at the thought of it, of his mind not having been his own again after he worked so hard to claw it back from Hydra’s programming. He swallows down a rush of bile.

“No!” Clint is vehement. “That’s — I just — I can tell what people _like_. I give them what they want, but I don’t _make_ them want it. That’s — even if I could, I wouldn’t _do_ that. And I don’t hurt anyone,” Clint adds earnestly. “Not for years, not since I figured out how — how not to.” 

He pulls in a shaky breath, letting it out slowly. “They just — I just take enough to make someone tired. They sleep through the night, and I’m gone when they wake up. Nobody gets hurt. I don’t know why you woke up so soon.”

“Well, I haven’t really been honest with you either,” Bucky acknowledges. 

This may be the biggest mistake he’s ever made, but Clint is trusting him with this, and he deserves some trust in return. Bucky puts the knife down on the side table and pulls at the fingers of the glove on his left hand, sliding it off.

He sees Clint’s eyes focus on the metal fingers, one hand reaching out to touch before he draws it back.

“The Winter Soldier,” Clint whispers, his eyes wide again, and Bucky gives him a small wave with the metal hand.

“Jesus fuck,” Clint groans, scrubbing his hand across his face. “I just took from a fucking _Avenger?”_

“Well,” Bucky says slowly. “Sounds to me like you only took what was freely given.”

Clint’s eyes dart up to his, hope mixing with the wariness.

“You’re not mad?”

Bucky shrugs. “Curious, mostly. I got a lot of questions, if you’re willing to answer them.”

Clint pulls in a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. “I’ve never been able to talk to anyone about it. It just — it just happened, and I’ve just figured out what I need to do to get by.”

Bucky pulls his shirt off, letting Clint see. “I might know a little something about that.”

Clint’s eyes roam the scarred and twisted skin. “Yeah, I guess maybe you do.”

“Come back to bed,” Bucky suggests. “I’ll buy you breakfast in the morning and you can tell me all about it.”

Clint rubs the back of his neck, shooting Bucky a glance like he might be kidding. “Really?” he finally says.

“Yeah, really. Besides.” Bucky stretches, slow and lazy, watching Clint’s eyes darken as his gaze drags down Bucky’s chest to where the edge of the sheet is keeping him barely decent. “I think I might have a little still left in the tank. You did promise me two, didn’t you?”

Clint is smiling now, wide and joyful as he sheds his pants and clambers up the bed toward Bucky.

“I guess I did,” he says, and then leans in to kiss Bucky again.

**Author's Note:**

> Forgot to mention, my lovely Blind Date prompted me with: "Your Tinder match is secretly a demon. And you two actually click pretty well. Whoopsie."


End file.
